a little poetry
wolves.
Sometimes I see someone so beautiful that I think there must be a revolution. Hair dyed so purple, or white, or black, eyes so deep and ferocious, sex so undefined, race so naturally complicated, a walking fractal, and I think: Here is a wolf of the system, a haunting solo, renegade, rogue, dirty thief, secret prince visionary worker prophet, a revolutionary. A veritable Che, a lover X, a righteous babe, a rock star priest. But then I remember the bombs and the makeup, the banks and the sneakers, the armies and the record companies, and I realize that the wolf is another cardboard action figure. A mirage of renegade, a toy of insurrection. And the true wolf, where is she? She was that fat girl we made fun of in grade school, the old man we ignore, the politicians we call boring, the smelly punk no one wants to sit next to on the bus. That girl, where is she? And she isn't even angry. If only she would show her anger, pierce a nose or a nipple, wear a "fuck you" sign. But her anger is in a deeper place, and she will inherit the earth. Until then she's fucking shit up, shit so deep you won't even know it's being hit until you turn to look for the old world and it's gone.
